All I Ever Wanted Page 6

  Love would be my reward. I yearned for love. I’d have it, and not with any ordinary boy, either. It would be overwhelming, undeniable, meant to be Love with a capital L. The kind that caused Johnny Depp to swing from a rope outside the mental hospital in Benny & Joon. The kind that made John Cusack hold up the boom box in the pouring rain so Peter Gabriel could do the talking for him. My parents had obviously failed miserably on that front, but I would never make their mistakes (whatever those were). Hester was cynical and bitter, having been sixteen when Dad left and all too aware of why our parents’ marriage failed. She took the other extreme a child of divorce might embrace—swearing that she’d never let a man have so much as a toehold on her heart. She’d roll her eyes as I wept at romantic movies and advise me to stop being such a putz, but I wouldn’t stop. Didn’t want to.

  Okay, so back to Gwen’s basement. Her parents were upstairs watching Seinfeld, and we were playing some variation of Truth or Dare that involved a boy and a girl going into a closet and making out. Prior to the party, Annie and I had spent roughly a thousand hours discussing whom we’d most want in the closet with us…her vote was the extremely cute Jack Doyle, the man she’d end up marrying. Me…I didn’t really have a leading contender. Until the actual night.

  Gwen lived four doors down from the Rousseaus, and she’d worked up the nerve to ask Mark to stop by her party. For some reason, Mark agreed. It was a huge triumph for Gwen…Mark was sixteen already! He had his driver’s permit! He was on varsity lacrosse and soccer! He shaved! Mark, as we all knew, was dating Julie Revere, and Julie’s little sister rode the bus with Corinne Breck’s cousin, and Corinne, who was in our class, said that her cousin said that Julie’s sister said that Julie said she might let Mark go all the way.

  We were all hugely aware of him…not one of the girls had touched the giant bowl of Cheeto balls for fear of getting orange gunk stuck in her braces, and most of us were sipping Diet Coke instead of the far too childish punch. I was so glad I’d worn my denim miniskirt with the cropped pink angora sweater. And yes, Mark had checked me out ten minutes earlier when he’d come in (thank you, padded bra!), causing me to blush furiously even as I pretended not to see him.

  When Mark’s turn came during Truth or Dare, I didn’t hear the question he was supposed to answer. A roaring sound filled my ears. My face burned. I adopted a casual pose, and when Mark’s dark eyes stopped on me, I gave a little smile, even though my heart raced fast enough to make me sick. He stood up, crossed the circle and held out his hand. “Okay, kid. Time to go slumming with me,” he said with the crooked grin that would torture me for the next decade and a half.

  Gwen and my friends Carla and Jenna fell silent with the wonder of it all, jealousy stamped clear on their faces, the idea of me being chosen as bitter to them as it was miraculous to me. Annie didn’t look at me, for which I was grateful…would’ve broken into squeals if she had—but her face glowed with excitement just the same. I stood up, brushed off my skirt and took Mark’s hand. Followed him into the closet, practically floating with the surrealism of the moment. Mark Rousseau was holding my hand! Taking me into a closet! It was more than I ever dared to dream.

  The closet was crowded; an air-conditioning vent ran through the space, so we had to stand close. Mark smelled wonderful—a mix of soap and sweat—and I could hear him breathing. He took my other hand. My palms were sweaty, but his were warm and dry, and my body temperature shot up well into fever range, sweat dampening my forehead. “You’re cute, Callie,” he whispered…the first time he said my name, and I almost threw up with the thrill of it all.

  “Thanks,” I whispered back, swallowing a little bile. My heart thudded so fast and hard it was a wonder he couldn’t hear it.

  “You ever been kissed before?” There was a smile in his voice, though I couldn’t see it in the dark.

  I bit my lip. “Um…not really,” I whispered.

  “Is it all right if I kiss you now?” he whispered back.

  “Sure,” I managed.

  It was a soft, gentle, wonderful kiss, chaste and perfect, his lips soft and warm. Something flipped in my stomach as his mouth moved against mine, and suddenly, to my mortification, a little moan escaped from my throat. That kind of moan. An oh, baby moan. Dang it! Mark laughed quietly, pulling back.

  “Was that okay?” he asked.

  “Mmm-hmm,” I answered, too horrified to say anything else.

  Then he kissed me again. This wasn’t a magical, perfect first kiss. This was…oh, it was warm, and mature, deeper and, oh, Lord, hot. My knees weakened in a near painful rush. The pit of my stomach tingled. Mark’s hands slid down to my ass, and he pulled me against him. Oh!

  Then he stopped. “Okay. We’re all set, then,” he said casually, the way a cool guy would. He stepped back and opened the closet door, the bright light and giggles from the other kids like the rude buzzing of an alarm clock calling me from a soft and lovely dream.

  My first kiss! My first kiss was from Mark Rousseau, and it had been perfect. And that second one—holy crap! I floated back to my place in the circle, next to Annie. She asked me something, and I murmured some nonsensical syllables in response, but I didn’t hear, couldn’t see, was absolutely heedless of the sharp and curious glances from my friends. My heart pounded and kept pounding, faster and faster, the rhythm repeating over and over, Mark Rousseau kissed me. Mark Rousseau kissed me.

  Of course, I fell crazy in love with him. Made a point of appearing in his path here and there, noting when, during a football game, he might head to the concession stand and hustling there myself so we’d innocently run into each other. He always said hi, sometimes even using my name. I began riding my bike past his house occasionally (well, four or five times a week, to be honest). I even joined the cross-country team because they warmed up near the lacrosse team.

  Mark didn’t break up with Julie. Didn’t hold up a boom box under my window and play Peter Gabriel songs. Didn’t swing outside my window to get a glimpse of me.

  But he did say hi, and when you’re a freshman and a high school junior says hi, that’s pretty huge. The next year, he went off to college—and I didn’t date anyone until he did…I was so hoping he’d notice me and wanted to be free just in case. But he didn’t; he left for the University of Chicago after high school. I dated a nice boy or two. Went to college myself. Had a relationship. Even fancied myself in love, sort of, though the feeling lacked that capital L feeling.

  After college, I lived in Boston for a few fun and impoverished years, but in the end, it wasn’t for me. My job at a large PR firm was pleasant enough, though the pay was mediocre at best. I had some great friends, we had fun, I dated a bit, but I missed Vermont. Missed my family, especially Bronte and baby Josephine. It was time to go home. Settle down. Find some guy and get married. Find Love with a capital L.

  Back to the clean air and rushing rivers of Georgebury I went, back to the funeral home, back to the sweet light of a Vermont summer. Mom and Dad both seemed pleased that I was home. Freddie, whose IQ was in the genius range, was often bored in school and welcomed the chance to torture me. I babysat for my nieces, hung out with Annie and Jack, got a job covering town meetings for the little local paper and waited tables at night, figuring some job opportunity would present itself.

  It did. Mark returned from Chicago, where he’d been working, and opened up Green Mountain Media.

  It seemed like it was meant to be, didn’t it? I mean, come on! Of course I applied. So did three hundred other people. Jobs like that were rare in our corner of the state, and it was big news in Georgebury. I wore my favorite skirt and sweater ensemble, bought on Beacon Street in Beantown, trying to look creative and funky and professional. Spent even longer on my hair that day, practiced my answers in the mirror.

  When I walked into Mark’s office, the old attraction came crashing back. He was better-looking than ever, more manly, broader in the shoulders, and he was as nice as could be. Asked me about college and my job in Boston�
�most of my work there had been trying to make “oily discharge” sound less horrific on drug warning labels, something I acknowledged honestly, getting a good laugh from Mark. He told me he loved the Back Bay and tried to make at least one Sox game a year, chatted about us both moving back to Georgebury. I, in turn, made sure to ask questions about his company, talked about my creativity and excellent work ethic, and agreed that the Sox were looking great.

  “I have to tell you, Callie,” he said, glancing again at my résumé, “you’re one of the most qualified people I’ve had in here. This looks really good.”

  “Thanks,” I beamed, my toes curling in my new shoes.

  “I can’t say for sure, since I have a few more people to interview, but…well, I think you’ll be hearing from me. By Friday at the latest.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “But take your time. It’s an important decision. You want to make sure you have the right mix of people.”

  He nodded, pleased. “True enough. Thanks for coming in.”

  “My pleasure,” I said.

  I made it to the door, quite thrilled with the interview, not to mention the stir Mark’s physical presence still caused, when he spoke again.

  “Callie?”

  I turned. “Yes?”

  “Didn’t we make out in a closet once?”

  Bam! My face ignited. “Um…you know, I…don’t…”

  He raised an eyebrow and grinned, slowly. “Callie, Callie. You haven’t forgotten your first kiss, have you?”

  I gave a mock grimace. “Okay, you caught me. Yes, we kissed in a closet. I wasn’t sure I should bring it up in a job interview.”

  He laughed. “I can’t see how it would hurt.” And then he smiled at me, a smile that went straight to my groin, and I held on to the door frame and hoped I didn’t look quite as ruttish as I was suddenly feeling.

  “I seem to remember it was quite…nice,” he added.

  “I seem to remember that, too,” I said, and my heart knocked around in my chest. “Well. Great seeing you again, Mark.”

  “I’ll call you soon.”

  And he did call. I got the job, and though I reminded myself that I was no longer fourteen, that I didn’t want to screw up a really great career opportunity and that romance had no place in a new company, I fell right back in love. He was a great boss—energetic, hardworking, appreciative of the efforts of his small staff. I loved the work…because we were so small, I worked on every project at first, and Mark quickly realized he’d hired the right person, something he often said out loud. He flirted occasionally, told me often that I looked pretty, something he also said to Karen and Leila and, later, Fleur. But he never crossed the line, no matter how hard I psychically ordered him to.

  Until last year, when we were nominated for a Clio.

  We’d landed a job for a children’s hospital, a coup for us, since we were just a few years old, and we wanted to hit a home run. For two days, Mark and I sat in the conference room from morning until well past dinnertime, working through lunches, guzzling coffee, wadding up pieces of paper, talking ourselves blue in the face. What were the advantages of this particular hospital? How we could show people they didn’t have to fly down to Boston to get top-rate care? What did a parent really want in a hospital? Why would they pick this one?

  And then, somewhere in the afternoon of the second day, I got it. Mark was blathering about hospital statistics or something, and I held up my hand to silence him. Then I said the line aloud, very slowly. Did a rough sketch on my notepad and looked into Mark’s dark eyes. His mouth fell open and he just stared at me. “That’s it,” he said in a near whisper.

  A week later, we did the shoot. I chose the kid, who was an actual patient, and the doctor, scouted out the room where I wanted the picture taken and talked to Jens, the photographer, about what I had in mind, the lighting, the focal point.

  The final poster was a close-up of a three-year-old boy in the arms of a doctor. The boy’s head rested on the woman’s shoulder, and he looked straight into the camera. The doctor’s face was turned away, so all you could see was her gray hair and the stethoscope draped around her neck. The boy’s shirt was white with thin red stripes, the doctor wore a white lab coat, and the wall behind them was also white. The focal point of the shot was the boy’s face…his huge, trusting, remarkable green eyes looking straight at the camera, a slight smile curling his lips. The tagline had been simple:…as if he were our own. Beneath that, Northeast Children’s Hospital. And that was it. The chairman of the hospital board got tears in his eyes when he saw it.

  When the Clio committee called, we were ecstatic. Of course we’d both be going to the ceremony. It was huge! A three-day festival with the best advertising agencies in the world, and we were one of them. Holy guacamole!

  An hour or two into our flight, Mark dozed off. A permeating fog of lust enveloped me, and tenderness, too. What could be more wonderful than watching over the man you love as he catches up on much-needed sleep? Sigh! For once I didn’t mind the fact that the airlines jammed passengers in like packaged herring. For once, I could study him without fear of discovery. His dark hair curled at the neck, his lashes were sooty and long. Even the way his chest rose and fell under his pale blue oxford was a turn-on.

  And then, somewhere over the Midwest, the captain’s amiable, Texas-twanged voice came over the PA. “Folks, we’re gonna run into a few bumps here. Please stay in your seats and buckle up tight. Trays up, too. It’s gonna be pretty rough. Flight attendants, take a seat.”

  I obeyed, making sure Mark was buckled, putting my laptop back in its case. And then, I was being shaken like a rag doll. The plane lurched and shuddered. People screamed as one, myself included. My seat belt cut into my stomach, my hair whooshed up. It was like being bucked off a horse, rough and unpredictable, and a horrible whine pierced the air. The oxygen masks tumbled out, and it was so loud! Mark, abruptly awake, threw his arm out across me, automatically trying to shield me from harm. “What the fuck?” he yelled over the noise.

  The plane shuddered again and rolled to the left. I clutched Mark’s arm as we tilted, feeling my laptop slide past my feet. My mind went white with terror. The plane wobbled unevenly, people were screaming and praying, the engines roared and shrieked. Mark’s eyes met mine. Then the plane seemed to drop, cups and trash and purses flew up and hit the ceiling. More screams. I couldn’t seem to speak—I gripped the headrest in front of me with one hand, and with the other, I held Mark’s. The plane shuddered again.

  “Folks, Captain Hewitt again. We’re having a little bit o’difficulty,” the captain called out, sounding as calm as if he were watching corn grow. “Hang on tight.” As he spoke, the plane fell a few more…feet? Yards? God, we were trapped in a hunk of metal and falling from the sky! My mouth opened but no sound came out.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Mark muttered.

  “Oh God, oh God help us, please Lord Jesus, save us!” the woman in front of me wailed. The plane bucked again, there was another mass scream. We’re going to die, came the small, quiet thought in the part of my brain that wasn’t roaring in panic. Behind me, someone vomited and my own stomach lurched. We’re crashing, oh, God, this is it. Fear electrified my legs, and my eyes, stretched too wide, saw everything…the man across the aisle hunched over, his hands over the back of his head. “Hail Mary, full of grace…” Trash was everywhere. Who knew there was so much trash? There was a little girl two rows ahead on my right sobbing, “Mommy, make it stop, Mommy!”

  Someone else threw up, people were sobbing into their cell phones—“Baby, it’s bad, I love you, I love you so much”—but Mark and I just held on to each other as the plane dipped and shivered. Mark pushed my head down—crash position, Jesus God, I was in crash position, who survived a plane crash? I shook violently, my face was wet with tears… Josephine, Bronte, Hester, Freddie, my parents. Who’d take care of Noah? What about Bowie? Would my sweet dog somehow know that I was gone?

  The plane bucked again, tilted, r
ighted. And then, amid the chaos and terror, I saw lights down on land. We were getting lower, descending, even as the plane still shuddered. The wings wobbled, then straightened, the sound of the landing gear locking in place was the most reassuring and beautiful sound that had ever reached my ears.

  “We’re gonna make it,” Mark said, his voice strained. My hand, clenched in his, had gone numb. “We’re gonna make it. We’re gonna make it.”

  When the screech of rubber against tarmac sounded, the plane burst into cheers and sobbing. “Welcome to New Mexico,” came the captain’s voice, shaking now that we were safe. “Sorry for the rough ride.” The white-faced attendants stood, and people flung off their seat belts despite the rules of waiting, desperate to be off the plane, many still crying, still swearing, and all of us miraculously alive.

  I turned to Mark, and we looked at each other. Then he kissed me, his hands cupping my tear-streaked face. He was drenched in sweat. “We’re fine,” he said hoarsely. I nodded, my throat still too clamped from terror to allow a word to escape. I’d almost died, but I hadn’t. I was alive. It was so strange. We were falling from the sky, and somehow we made it.

  Standing in the aisle, waiting to get out, shaking like a junkie in heroin withdrawal, I found it so bizarre to do those mundane tasks like find my purse and laptop, straighten my shirt. People were already talking on their cell phones, assuring loved ones of their safety, opening the overhead compartments and retrieving their carry-on luggage. I didn’t speak. “Callie, you okay?” Mark asked.

  I nodded. Realized I was crying. When we filed past the captain and crew, I hugged each of them, my God, I loved them so much. When I came to the captain, it was clear he was God’s right hand, not some middle-aged blond man with a mustache. “Thank you. Thank you so much,” I wept.

  “Well, now, we all made it down safe and sound, no matter what it felt like, right?” He patted my shoulder. “Thanks for flying with us, little lady.”